Page 30 of Healing Hearts at the Christmas Inn
Jack followed more slowly, pulling the door shut behind him and leaning against it for a moment. His heart was racing, and he couldn't pretend it was just from the exercise.
What am I doing?
The Christmas family house was quiet at this early hour. The five-bedroom home had been built at the same time as the inn, connected by a short hallway that led directly beside the office. Jack's great-great-grandfather had intentionally designed it that way, wanting the family to be close while still maintaining some separation between work and home. Jack had grown up inthis house, knew every creak of the floorboards, every patch of sunlight that moved across the walls as the day progressed.
He pushed off the door and headed down the hallway toward his room, his running shoes leaving faint prints on the polished floor. Logan's door was closed, which meant his friend was either still asleep or already out working on the renovations. Knowing Logan, it was probably the latter.
Jack's room was at the end of the hall, the same one he'd had as a teenager. His mother had redecorated it years ago, replacing his old posters and twin bed with more adult furniture, but it still felt like coming home. The window overlooked the ocean, and he could see the beach from here, the sand already beginning to warm in the morning sun.
He stripped off his damp shirt and running shorts, tossing them in the hamper, and headed for the adjoining bathroom. The shower was small but functional, and Jack cranked the water as hot as it would go before stepping under the spray.
Steam filled the space within seconds. Jack braced his hands against the tile wall and let the water pound against his shoulders, his eyes closed, but it did nothing to wash away the thoughts racing through his mind.
Holly Bennett.
He'd known from the moment he'd seen her in the parking lot last night that she was beautiful. That much had been obvious. Tall and graceful, with dark hair streaked with gold and eyes the color of sea glass. But beauty was easy to recognize and easier to dismiss. Jack had learned that lesson the hard way with Pamela.
No, it wasn't Holly's looks that had gotten under his skin. It was everything else.
The way she'd stepped protectively closer to Trinity when he'd first approached them. The warmth in her voice when she'd introduced her granddaughter. The genuine delight on her face when she'd seen the penthouse suite, like the worn furniture and slightly chipped paint, didn't matter because she could see the care that had gone into decorating it.
And this morning. This morning had been something else entirely.
Jack grabbed the soap and started scrubbing, trying to focus on the practical task at hand rather than the memory of Holly laughing as Duke jumped on her. The sound had been bright and unguarded, like she'd forgotten to be careful for just a moment. And when she'd told him about Trinity's mother, about her son being deployed, about finding the inn's brochure while cleaning out her ex-husband's study, he'd heard the pain beneath her words.
Pain he recognized because he carried his own version of it.
Jack rinsed off and turned off the water, reaching for a towel. He dried himself roughly, then wrapped the towel around his waist and moved to the mirror. His reflection stared back at him through the steam. Dark hair plastered to his head, water still dripping down his chest, and eyes that looked more awake than they had in months.
He thought about Pamela. About how different Holly was from his ex-wife.
Pamela had been polished and perfect on the surface, all sharp edges and calculated charm. She'd married him for the prestige of the Christmas name, for the romantic idea of owning a historic inn. But the reality of the work, of the long hours andmodest income, had quickly soured her. When Jane was only three years old, Pamela had walked out without looking back. The prenuptial agreement his mother had insisted on meant Pamela left with nothing, and she'd never forgiven him for that.
The fact that she'd gone straight to Victor Martin, Jack's high school rival, had been the final insult. Victor had taken great pleasure in helping Pamela destroy Jack's architectural firm ten years later, using connections and carefully timed rumors to ensure Jack's business collapsed under the weight of lost contracts and broken partnerships.
Jack had lost everything except the inn. And now even that was slipping through his fingers.
He turned away from the mirror and headed back to his bedroom, pulling on jeans and a faded work shirt. His phone sat on the nightstand, and he picked it up to check the time. Seven-thirty. He'd been gone longer than he'd realized.
There was a text from Logan:Already working on the first floor. Come find me when you're ready.
Jack smiled despite himself. Logan could never sit still for long.
He laced up his work boots, ran a hand through his damp hair, and headed out of his room. The smell of coffee hit him as he passed the kitchen, and he detoured long enough to pour himself a mug. Black, strong enough to strip paint.Perfect.
Duke was sprawled on the kitchen floor, already snoring softly despite having just returned from the run. Jack stepped over him and made his way through the connecting hallway that led from the family house into the inn proper.
The door beside the office opened into a small vestibule that served as a buffer between private and public spaces. Jack pushed through the second door and emerged into the inn's main hallway. The morning light streamed through the windows, illuminating the polished wood floors.
He could hear voices from the dining room. Early risers having breakfast, probably. Isabella would have the kitchen running like clockwork by now, turning out her usual magic. The woman was a treasure, and Jack had no idea what they'd do without her.
He found Logan in one of the first-floor guest rooms, kneeling beside a doorframe with a tape measure in hand. The room was torn apart, furniture covered with drop cloths, baseboards removed to reveal the bones of the walls.
"Morning," Logan said without looking up. "Have a nice run?"
Jack took a sip of his coffee, buying himself a moment. "It was fine."
"Just fine?" Logan glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "That's not what your face says."
